


The Withering of a God

by papirtrane



Category: American Gods, The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-28
Updated: 2012-08-28
Packaged: 2017-11-13 01:50:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/498112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papirtrane/pseuds/papirtrane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A drabble I wrote, inspired by Neil Gaiman's American Gods, which I'm currently reading. </p>
<p>Loki is a withering god, forgotten by his people and doomed to a hard and meaningless existence until the end of time. He is spotted by someone in the queue of a Starbucks café, and his face is forever burned into the memory of a young girl who never had the faintest notion who he actually is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Withering of a God

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE! Even though I added American Gods as a fandom, it does not follow any direct timeline within the book, and served only as inspiration for this little story.
> 
> Please enjoy!

_Somewhere in New York_

As usual on a Monday morning, I'm queuing at Starbucks for my morning cup of cappuccino, when in the corner of my eye I spot something that makes me turn around. It's a man, sitting alone by a table in the corner of the café, with a cup of what looks like black coffee in front of him. Unlike most of the other people who sit alone in Starbucks an early morning, he's not doing anything -- not reading a book or a newspaper, not looking over papers or homework; he's not even fiddling with a cellphone. He's just sitting there, seemingly staring out into nothing, and he looks extremely tired. His face is thin, pale, and full of angles; his eyes deep-sunken into their sockets. On his head is a tousle of hair, dark as a raven's feathers, long and messy and oily; his clothes are filthy and worn-out.

I suddenly feel terribly disturbed by his presence, even though, or perhaps because, he's doing nothing, looking at nothing, and hardly even stirring. I find myself wondering if he has even had a sip of his coffee. I've seen men like him everywhere in this big city, on a daily basis. They sit or lie in corners, they sleep on the street, they beg and they steal, and I have always felt sorry for them, but this is different. Unable to bear it any longer, I look away, and find there's only one guy now, between me and the cashier. I order my coffee and I walk over to the end of the counter, to wait for my cappuccino.

When I look back a moment later, the strange, thin man is gone, and he's left his coffee seemingly untouched. Rather than disturbed, I now have a great, deep feeling in the pit of my stomach that something is missing. Something valuable has been lost, and I feel like crying. When my order is called out I take my coffee and I walk hurriedly and determinedly for the door. I don't look back and I never visit that particular Starbucks again. I also never see the pale, angular man again, but I remember forever his face, so full of desperation and hopelessness and emptiness -- like a god who has lost its purpose in life, but is still doomed to eternal existence.


End file.
